A Shocking Turn of Events
by Faye Dartmouth
Summary: Luke just wanted to have his outlet fixed. But when Dean Forester turns out to be the fix-it guy, Luke gets more than he bargained for.
1. Chapter 1

Title: A Shocking Turn of Events

Summary: Luke just wanted to have his outlet fixed. But when Dean Forester turns out to be the fix-it guy, Luke gets more than he bargained for.

A/N: This fic is totally not my fault. I resisted Gilmore Girls for _years_ because I knew what happened to Jared Padalecki's character (as in, what Dean Forester did). I knew it would drive me nuts if I watched it and let myself get attached so for my own sanity I avoided it. Then my dear, sweet friend geminigrl11 started bombarding me with youtube clips of cute!Dean and I was done for. And so came my incessant need to redeem the character. Which is sort of the goal of this fic, at least in a baby steps kind of way. So if you're totally anti-Dean, don't even bother. But I must admit, I have had SO much fun with this. geminigrl11 beta'ed it and sendintheclowns talked me through it, so they both get blame for this as well :)

A/N 2: This is in two parts. I will attempt to have part two up sometime next week but my life is kind of, well, crazy right now :) Oh, and this is set tentatively after the finale, though I admit the details might be strained in terms of Luke/Lorelai and where Rory is at. But just know that general timeframe applies and you've been warned for possible continuity errors.

Disclaimer: I really don't anything.

-o-

**Part 1**

There were few things in life that Luke _liked_ to do. But a lot of things he _needed _to do. In some ways, _like_ and _need_ were the same for him. Because to most people, _like_ implied some kind of excitement, some sort of emotional investment with an emotional payoff. Luke didn't _like_ emotions at all, and his payoffs were never intense satisfaction or surreal peace. For Luke, it was a question of keeping busy most of the time, keeping himself occupied to avoid the fact that he was working in some nowhere town in a nowhere diner with no hope or prospects for anything more--on any level.

So he _liked_ working in the sense that he _needed_ to. It was all he had in his life. It was his income, his livelihood, his sole source of social interaction--now that marriage wasn't in the picture anymore. Well, just because marriage may not be in the picture didn't mean that Lorelai was out of the picture. Not that Lorelai was ever really _out_ of the picture. But this time it was different--they were different, friends and more, acquaintances and another member of Stars Hollow to torture him with her eccentricities.

The diner, therefore, was home. Not in that overly sentimental way that people really liked to think about, but in the practical way. It was all he had. It was who he was. And even if he didn't _like_ it. He needed it. Or he'd devolve into a heap of meaningless nothing. Which was something he'd really rather not do.

Luckily for him, being in the diner wasn't really all that difficult. His business wasn't booming and it certainly would never make him rich, but a place like Stars Hollow had constants. His place was one of them, for better or for worse. With that, came numbing stability that Luke _needed_.

Sure, it meant that he had to work all day, every day. It meant he had to put up with _people_--all types of people--but unless he wanted to become a hermit, there really wasn't any avoiding that. Not that anyone could successfully be a hermit in a town like that, where the concept of a recluse was practically foreign.

Regardless, life _needed_ purpose--and money--and just _work_.

It was really that simple. Wake up, get the diner open, serve people, try not to go crazy, close the diner, go to sleep. Routine and plain and easy and annoying.

Most days, anyway.

Until he plugged in his coffee maker on the counter two days earlier, and instead of making coffee, it made sparks. In the grander scheme of things, sparks were not the same as coffee and he could not serve sparks to customers. In fact, sparks made customers nervous. Which meant one thing--he had to get it fixed.

His first recourse was to test it. Plug in various things. See what happened.

What happened was he blew a fuse.

No, not his temper, though that was strained, too. But an actual fuse. Of the electrical type.

Then, he produced more sparks.

Luke knew how to keep his place running and could do most of it himself, but electrical work? Not totally his area of expertise. And though he could tinker around with it, Luke didn't figure that starting fires or shocking himself would actually make him happy.

So he called in a professional. Or Tom, anyway. Professionalism in Stars Hollow was a bit of a stretch, but Luke would take what he could get. And what he got was the promise that it would be fixed prior to opening that morning.

Imagine his surprise when Dean Forester was standing at his door, clad in jeans and a t-shirt, a toolbox in his hands.

"Hi," the kid said, smiling somewhat awkwardly. They were familiar with each other--or_ had_ been, way back when. Back when Dean and Rory were together...back before Dean seemed to lose the ability to think like a rational human being.

When Luke didn't say anything, Dean's smile wavered and he shuffled his feet. "So, uh, you called about an outlet?"

"Yeah I need an electrician," Luke replied dumbly, still trying to figure out the toolbox in the kid's hand. His place wasn't open and Dean didn't stop by anymore.

"Well, I'm the closest thing you're going to get," Dean said.

"No, you don't understand," Luke said. "I asked for someone to come fix the outlet. I mean, I can get along without it, but every time someone plugs in the coffee pot it sparks and shorts and seems to freak out the customers."

Dean's smile was patient, if forced. "Right. You called Tom. And Tom called me," he explained. "I do work for him."

Luke wrinkled his brow, uncertain, though it was difficult to say why. "Are you sure you're, you know, certified to do that?"

To Dean's credit, the kid didn't even flinch. Just looked at him with tired resignation. "And you think Tom is?"

"Point taken," Luke said. Still, that hesitation. He couldn't place it but he couldn't deny it. "Are you sure you won't electrocute yourself? I mean, you can't have much experience."

Dean sighed but didn't roll his eyes (_another point for the kid_). "Do you want your outlet fixed or not?"

Trust some long-haired kid he didn't like or risk setting the diner on fire? A close call. This was _Dean_ he was talking about, the kid who'd been too inadequate to marry the right girl to begin with and then too stupid to walk away from marrying the wrong one. _Dean Forester_--a nice boy once, but now? He didn't really want to be helping support adultering rejects. And faulty wiring probably would get him a nice insurance settlement...

But, damn--the diner was _his_. And besides, where would he live? If he had to rent, he'd have to deal with someplace Taylor owned or move to the next town to avoid such hassle.

"Fine, fine," he muttered, stepping out of the way. "Fix the outlet."

Dean smiled slightly, walking inside. "Gee, thanks," he said. "I can feel the confidence already."

"If you don't want to--" Luke said, holding out his hands.

This time the kid _did _roll his eyes. "I'm not the one with a faulty outlet," he said, the smile fading to an all-business expression. "Now which one is it?"

Luke came close to glaring and nodded to the counter.

Dean went to it, placing his tool box on the counter next to him and rummaging for a screwdriver.

The kid seemed totally focused and intent, but even though there wasn't much Luke could do at this point, he couldn't bring himself to trust Dean alone. He knew what kind of things Dean had done while he was _alone_...with Rory, anyway. He'd thought the kid was trouble from the start, and his mistrust lingered still and stronger than ever.

Besides, why give the kid the pleasure of solitude while he worked? Luke may have accepted his help, but that didn't mean he had to like it. And it certainly didn't mean he had to make the kids' life easy.

Dean found his screwdriver and was leaning in, poised to undo the screws.

"Make sure it's the right kind," Luke said. "I don't want you to scratch the paint off."

Eyebrows raised, Dean just looked at him.

"Well, it's hard to find screws painted the right color," he continued. "And they're supposed to match, you know. Blend in."

It was ludicrous, and from the look on Dean's face, the kid knew it, too.

"Look, if you know how to do this, then I'll be more than happy to leave and save you the twenty bucks you're going to owe Tom by the end of this." To prove his point, Dean held out the screwdriver.

Smart-mouth. It wasn't like he hadn't tried to do it by himself. He prided himself on being self-sufficient. Besides, he didn't really _like_ people and he liked asking them for help even less. And paying them? Right there at the bottom of his list of things he never wanted to do.

Still. Electrical outlet. Coffee. Stars Hollow and its damn caffeine addiction. "No, no," he said. "Just...be quick about it."

The kid grinned and shook his head. "Did you turn off the power?" he asked as he unscrewed the faceplate.

He'd hire the kid for help, but he wouldn't be talked to like he was _five_. "Of course I turned off the power!"

"Do you want to check?" Dean asked, looking back at him over his shoulder.

His incredulity flared. "Do you want to get paid?"

Dean held up a hand in placation. "Little sensitive today, aren't we?" he asked, turning back to the outlet and removing the cover.

"Well, I couldn't make any coffee because every time I plugged in the machine it sparked!"

Nodding, Dean peered into the outlet. "You could always, you know, plug it into a different outlet," he suggested, taking out a small flashlight from his tool box.

Teeth gritted, Luke decided to hold his tongue. Restraint wasn't something he was fond of, but sometimes, he supposed it was useful. Especially if it meant the kid would just shut up and _work _already and stop thinking of ways to antagonize him. "Is that your _professional_ opinion?"

Dean just shook his head. "You're the one that hired out help," he said. "I'm just doing my job so you can do yours."

Luke opened his mouth, ready to speak, to protest, because surely the kid was being a disrespectful little brat right now. But what was the point? Dean was turned away, still inspecting the outlet, and okay, so it was a smart-ass reply but it's not like Luke didn't have it _coming_.

Still didn't mean Luke had to _like _it. Or even sit around and take it. In fact, he didn't even need to be in the same _room_. Because he didn't really want to trust Dean with anything, but walking away was better than accidentally knocking him senseless and getting arrested for assault.

"Fine," he said heavily. "I'll just leave you to your work then. Holler if you need something. You know, a hand, a tool, a _brain_."

That was a good one, one of Luke's best, so he was more than a little disappointed when the kid didn't even react.

He opened his mouth, looked for something else to say. When nothing came, he closed it in a huff and turned on his heel to retreat to the kitchen.

Of all the dumb ways to start a day. Not only does his electrical outlet not work, but he didn't get any coffee, it was raining outside, and _Dean Forester_ was the moron who was going to _fix _it. If he was pinning his hopes on that kid, then it was going to be a worse day than he'd anticipated.

There wasn't much to do in the kitchen. He'd kept the closed sign up long enough to have the work done--it's not like he could serve people without coffee, anyway. But maybe he could get a start on some of the lunch menu--he liked to have a few burgers going to meet the early rush.

Reaching over to turn on the burner, a sudden thought came to him.

Lorelai.

Yeah, okay, so it wasn't totally unusual to think about Lorelai at random times. She had that effect on people. She and her insanity were kind of like a fungus. They grew on you. And they were like a mosquito--they just would _not_ go away.

He'd been closed to the public but he'd let Lorelai in before Dean had arrived. She'd been going out of town, which was the only reason for her to be awake at such an ungodly hour. He'd let her in and served her two pieces of toast--hell, the breadcrumbs were still on the counter. From the front room. Where he'd turned the power _back on_.

He swore. Whether he liked the kid or not, he didn't want an accident on his hands. Much less one that he was responsible for. "Hey, Dean, wait--"

He didn't get more than two steps where something popped and sizzled. It was louder than he would have expected, too loud, and before he could make sense of it, the kitchen darkened. Something crashed--the sounds of pans clattering and plates breaking.

His heart stopped.

It took him a minute to realize he was still alive and that at least there wasn't a fire. But it smelled a little like smoke, which he supposed made sense for burnt wiring. Now he just had to wait for Dean's reply, which surely there would be. Because Dean had told him to check twice and Luke had said it wasn't necessary and it turned out that the little punk was right.

But Dean didn't say anything.

Luke was pretty sure his heart still wasn't beating. He clenched his teeth and forced himself to move.

Pushing through the doors, he found the main room dim without the overhead lights. The burnt smell was stronger there, and looking across the far end of the counter he could see a smattering of pots on the ground and a handful of broken dishes. Which was pretty weird when he thought about it, because the outlet was on the _other_ side of the counter, closer to the kitchen, so how would the spark really have _that_ much impact?

Well, if it conducted through a human body and sent said human body flying through the air where it hit the plates and pans in question.

And didn't that just suck. Not the pans, though he'd need to wash those, and not even the plates, because those were cheap. But the body? It was not just some random body. It was Dean Forester. The kid he'd just promised that he'd taken care of things, the kid he just hired, the kid he'd been thinking about hitting just a few moments before.

That very kid was on the floor, eyes closed, his face lolled toward Luke and his slack lips parted slightly.

Luke swore again and remembered how to move. In two strides, he was by Dean's side, going to a knee amidst the shattered glass.

"Dean?" he asked, reaching a hand out tentatively. "Dean?"

There was no answer, nothing, and up close he could see that the kid's skin was singed, his long fingers blackened as they lay prone next to his body, which was pushed up hard against the backside of the counter. Even that long hair was fried on the edges as it peaked up from his head.

And twitching. The kid was _twitching_. Slight tremors, fine but there, shaking his entire body from head to toe.

"Dean?" he tried again, more desperate now. Not that he expected the kid to answer, because singed and twitching didn't exactly suggest consciousness. "Dean!"

There was still no response--no audible response, anyway, except that the twitching picked up, heightened until it was full blown shaking.

A seizure.

The damn kid was having a seizure right there on his diner floor.

Fumbling at his pocket, Luke searched for his phone. Because if he couldn't handle an electrical outlet there was no way he was attempting to deal with a _seizure _on his own.

By the time he had it in his hands, he was shaking, too, and his palms felt sweaty.

And then it stopped. Not his shaking--he didn't know if he'd _ever_ stop shaking--but Dean's. And it didn't abate the way it came on, slow and incremental. But sudden. Dramatic. Dean was just _still_.

And pale. Deathly.

Luke's stomach dropped.

The phone forgotten, he reached his fingers to Dean again, this time shaking lightly. "Hey," he called. "Hey, Dean, come on. Wake up."

It wasn't really a surprise that Dean didn't obey--it's not like he had any _reason_ to--but it was disconcerting nonetheless. Even more so because Dean wasn't moving at all now, not even minutely, not even his chest, and Luke suddenly got the terrible feeling that the kid wasn't breathing.

"Dean!" he tried again, louder now, as if he could cajole the kid out of stillness by the mere quality of his voice.

Still nothing. Not a smart remark, not a murmur. Nothing.

Nervously, Luke moved his fingers from Dean's shoulder, moving them tentatively to Dean's neck. It was precaution, he told himself. He didn't know a lot about first aid or anything, but this was what people did, he was pretty sure. What you were supposed to do. Make sure people were _breathing_ and had a _heartbeat_ since the last time he checked, those were pretty important things.

Too bad this kid didn't seem to have one--a heartbeat. But Luke wasn't good at this, didn't have experience. Maybe he just couldn't _find _it.

Panic barely at bay, he leaned over Dean, putting his hear close to Dean's mouth, listening, waiting. For a puff of air, a hint of life.

Nothing.

Of all the times he wanted to tell people to shut up and leave him alone, _this_ wasn't one of them. In fact, Luke probably wouldn't have traded just about anything to have the kid open his eyes and glare at him and tell him what a moron he was for _not checking the power_.

Which Dean obviously wouldn't do until he started breathing again.

Luke had to fix that. There was no one else to fix it--it had to be him.

Help, though. Because if he couldn't fix an outlet by himself, there was no way he could bring someone back to life. He remembered his phone vaguely and picked out the numbers 9-1-1 without thinking.

The operator sounded almost bored as she gathered the basic info, and Luke wondered what her problem was. But it was his problem that mattered. Dean's problem. "Yeah, yeah," he snapped. "I've got a kid here--he's been electrocuted."

"Do you know the nature of the electrical shock?" the operator replied.

"An outlet," Luke answered, his eyes never leaving Dean, who seemed to be paling more by the moment. "He was working on an outlet."

"Is he breathing?"

"No!" Luke exploded. "He's not breathing and his heart's not beating and why are you asking me so many stupid questions! We need _help_!"

She seemed unfazed, completely, when she replied. "Help has been dispatched to your location. They will be there in about five minutes."

Five minutes. Five minutes. Dean's lips were almost blue now and he still hadn't moved and it was still Luke's fault and he was really going to throttle this operator if he talked to her anymore.

"Sir? Sir, are you listening to me? Would you like help in starting CPR?"

Of course he did. He wanted someone to be there and do it for him so he wouldn't have to worry about a dead kid in his diner. But this operator? Was not helping. At all. And listening to her condescending instructions would take longer than figuring out how to do it himself.

So he dropped the phone, the line still going, and turned back to Dean. No first aid classes didn't mean that he knew nothing, just that he didn't know it well or trust himself to do it right. But in five minutes, Dean was going to be even more dead, _irrevocably _dead, and Luke would really rather not have to deal with the fact that Dean Forester died on his diner floor because Luke had been too much of a jackass to check the power.

Carefully, he pulled Dean away from the counter, until the kid was flat on his back and sprawled at Luke's knees. They'd gone over this in some class he'd taken, some business ownership class, where they talked about how being a good employer meant being prepared for anything. He'd scoffed then--he just wanted his certification--but he was wishing now he'd paid attention a little more instead of figuring out all the ways in which the educational system needed to be fixed.

Airway. Open the airway. He could do this. Idiots on TV could do this, so he could, too. Putting a hand on Dean's forehead, he tilted it back, watching as the singed brown strands fell away from his face.

Now pinch the nose and breathe.

There was no question it was awkward, and probably even embarrassing had he let himself think about it. But there was no one else around, no one except a dead kid, and Luke was pretty sure Dean'd appreciate the efforts, embarrassing or not.

The air went easily into Dean's lungs, raising the kid's chest once, twice.

So the breathing was done.

Now the heart. Compressions.

Both hands above the breastbone, arms straight, push down. Thirty times.

If he was wrong, there wasn't time to question it. Not with Dean still not breathing and the operator still chattering over the line.

It was harder than he expected--the effort it took. Not to mention the way it felt. To hold someone's life in his hands. To know that the kid was probably dead but that he had a chance to change that. He _needed_ to change that.

He breathed for Dean again, and this time it felt less weird. There was no time to think, only act, and thirty more compressions might just give Dean another chance at living.

Luke would never be sure how many times he repeated the cycles, how long he spent, but he did remember the sound of sirens, the commotion at the door and two paramedics pulling him away.

It was his turn to watch. There was nothing else he could do. Watch as they cut Dean's shirt away, leaving it flayed open around his chest. Watch as they held a mask over Dean's face and pumped the air bag, one, two, one, two.

"What happened?" one of them asked and he was looking at Luke.

Luke blinked, once, twice, and wondered how it wasn't obvious. "He was fixing the outlet," Luke said finally.

The one looking at him nodded and kept squeezing the bag. The other was getting something out. "And?"

"The power wasn't off," Luke said finally, and the words sounded heavy--condemning--because the power was _supposed_ to be off.

"Was he breathing at any point?" the one asked again. The other had something out now, something Luke recognized but couldn't think of. Like his brain was just as fried as Dean's.

"Before he touched the outlet." The words were out of his mouth before he could think about them. Sarcasm was his tone of choice--it wasn't even conscious thought.

The paramedic cocked his head, perplexed, and that must have been more information than he wanted because he looked to his partner, to Dean.

There was nothing to do again. It was like a bad episode of ER where he was nothing but one of the millions of viewers just watching. Which would be okay if these were just actors playing with props. But in real life? There was no drama to enjoy. Just cold hard facts that Luke could do nothing about. He was no paramedic. He was nothing but a small town diner owner who apparently couldn't remember to turn off the power before letting people stick electrical tools in it. He probably _shouldn't_ be allowed to do anything at this point--nothing but watch--and hope. Watch as they got out the paddles and shocked his heart. Hope that it worked. Watch as Dean's body jerked before stilling, jerked again and stilled. Jerked--

And the paramedics smiled.

"We've got a rhythm," one announced, just like it was St. Elsewhere.

The other was back with a stethoscope, hovering for a moment, placing it here and there across Dean's chest. "No spontaneous respiration," he said.

"We'll keep bagging him," the other replied, picking up the mask and resuming the squeezing--one, two, one, two.

"He's stable for transport."

"Get the backboard in here. Let's get a collar on and roll him."

The other reached backwards, hands finding the neck brace without even looking. It was a two-man job, rolling Dean gently, cradling his neck while snaking the brace around and securing it. With Dean flat on his back again, he reached for the backboard, maneuvering it to the kid. Again, they rolled him, this time rolling the board under him and then easing both to the ground before securing straps around Dean's exposed torso, around his unmoving legs.

"Let's get him up," one said, the one with the bag, holding the mask tight with one hand and squeezing with the other. A firefighter appeared out of nowhere, and Luke just blinked when he realized there was another one behind him, inspecting the blackened outlet. There was a cop, too, standing at the door, muttering into his walkie-talkie.

The firefighter helped hoist the backboard, which couldn't have been any small feat. Dean was young, but he wasn't small. He was tall and he may have been lean, but Luke could see the muscle there.

"Sir?" someone asked. "Sir?"

Luke turned slightly, his eyes flickering to the cop next to him before going back to Dean.

"Sir, could you please tell me what happened?"

Luke's jaw felt tight, his body warm as Dean was carried out. Eyes still closed, face still pale. Alive, they said. Alive, but--

"Sir?"

He blinked, looking at the cop again, more clearly now. "What?"

The young man gave him a benign smile. "Can you tell me what happened?"

He looked for Dean again, but he couldn't see him anymore. The kid was lost somewhere between the paramedics and the firefighters and the crowd that had grown around the ambulance. The doors were shut and the firefighter thumped hard on the back before it lurched away from the curb, speeding down the street, sirens wailing once again.

"Sir?"

Luke closed his eyes. Could he tell them what happened?

Maybe. Probably. Luke had screwed up and some idiot kid paid the price. There wasn't much to tell. The paramedics had gleaned all they could and Luke was not a storyteller. Not that this was a story Luke wanted to tell, anyway.

-o-

Good news, bad news, Stars Hollow knew how to draw a crowd--a good-for-nothing, rubber-necking crowd, filled with people with marginally good intentions--if gossip and rumors could be considered good.

It was expected, Luke supposed, that when the ambulance finally was gone that the police wouldn't be able to keep the crowd at bay. He saw all types--the little old ladies who lived for the strange and sordid, the wide-eyed kids who couldn't believe that something _different_ could happen, the lackadaisical teens, the _OMGREALLY _young women. People. All of them. In droves. School kids, soccer moms, store owners--all trying to figure out the commotion at Luke's Diner.

Some owners might relish the attention. Even under the best of circumstances, Luke wouldn't.

These weren't the best of circumstances.

The cop was nothing more than a kid, probably no older than Dean was, and he was about the only one there who was just trying to do his job. Which wasn't easy with the eager eyes at the door and the firemen milling in the background.

"So it was an accident?" the kid said, Officer Quincy, his tag read.

It was a valid question, probably, if he hadn't asked it _fifteen times_ already. Of _course_ it was an accident. As if Luke _meant _to electrocute the kid.

Officer Quincy shook his head and flipped his notebook shut. Luke highly suspected that there were nothing more than scribbles on the page. "That's what they always teach you," the cop said knowingly. "Check the power."

Luke clenched his teeth, a mixture of annoyance and guilt building to a slow, frustrating fury within him. Was this kid _trying_ to make him miserable? Police officers were there to protect and defend--well, in any town but Stars Hollow.

The kid clapped Luke on the shoulder. "At least you were here to save him," he said. "Kept this from being a tragic accident. I'm sure he'll be very thankful when he wakes up."

At first, Luke was too surprised to reply. Thankful? Dean would be _thankful_? That Luke stupidly told him that the coast was clear and then let the kid be fried like a squirrel biting a telephone wire?

Then Luke got it. A little late, sure, but he _got it_ as the young cop was swaggering out of the door into the sunlight and the crowd. They thought it was Dean's fault. Which, really, made some sense. Dean was the hired hand on the job, so the duty of checking the power did fall on him. Which is why the kid had asked Luke to double check.

Whatever the reason, they thought it was Dean's fault. They thought Luke was a hero.

Before Luke could make sense of it, a firefighter was in front of him, his mustache twitching. "That outlet will need to be rewired," he said, nodding backwards. "Looks like the kid got himself a good jolt--had to have been to send him across the room like that. My advice? Turn _off_ the power and get it fixed."

There were no words for a plan that brilliant. Luke just stared. "What do you think I was doing? Just having the kid mess with the outlet for kicks?"

The firefighter raised an eyebrow at Luke's hostility but seemed unwilling to be baited. "Try someone who remembers how to turn the power _off_. Next time, you all might not get so lucky."

"Right," Luke replied. "Since Dean _electrocuting _himself was _real_ lucky."

"The boy's alive," the firefighter shrugged. "And your place didn't start on fire. All in all, we'll chalk this up to a learning experience. That thing's a fire hazard, though. So you get it fixed."

There were probably fifty things Luke could have said to that, several he really _wanted_ to say, but nothing much came out. Snark was his self-defense in everyday situations. Somehow it wasn't doing a very good job at protecting him from this.

-o-

The police pulled out first, sirens off and quiet even as the crowd pressed in. The firefighters left next, giving the diner the okay to reopen, and even dropping the names of a few "reputable" electricians. By the time they were all gone, the morning bustle was in full swing and the crowd outside was full and wide-eyed and apparently in desperate need of coffee.

Well, so was Luke. That didn't mean everyone got what they wanted.

It was Ceasar who came in first, breathing heavily as he closed the front door behind him. "It's like a mob out there!" the cook exclaimed, his back pressed against the door defensively. "I kept hearing about an accident? What happened?"

And there was the million dollar question, the one being gossiped about right as they spoke, the one he'd be answering for days.

"They say there was an accident. Something about a fire."

"There wasn't a fire," Luke told him simply.

"Are you sure? There were firefighters--"

"Do you seem billows of smoke and devouring flames?"

The cook looked around, thoughtfully. "No, but--what happened? They said that someone was dead."

"Again, no dead bodies," Luke snipped at him. "Not even a chalk outline. You should know better than to believe the crowds. And aren't you late, by the way?"

He was deflecting, and Luke was pretty sure it was obvious.

The cook moved away from the door. "So all the commotion is for...?"

"There was an accident," Luke said hastily. "I called someone to get the outlet fixed, the kid started in on it but the power was still on and..."

Ceasar's eyes widened. "He got zapped? Really?"

"That's what happens when people put metal in live outlets."

"Why didn't he turn off the electricity?"

That was too much. Luke didn't want to stand here and relive it, discuss all the stupid ways in which one could _not_ turn on the power. "Just shut up and clean up the mess," Luke ordered. "Toss the broken glass, sweep up the shards, and put the dirty pans in the back."

If Ceasar wanted to say something more, he was wise enough not to. Luke was certain his longtime cook could figure out when to ask a question and when not to and if ever had Luke wanted people to shut up and leave him alone, it was now. He just needed to get the diner open, get life going again, and forget about the fact that today had had a morning at all.

But as he was flipping the switches, one after another, his fingers lingered on the one for the counter. Still flicked in the on position, he remembered the sizzle and the bang, the burnt smell, Dean shaking on the floor, _one, two..._

Teeth gritted, he turned it to the off position. And left it there.

-o-

Back in the diner, he found Ceasar sweeping the remnants of the morning into a small pile. The place looked almost normal already, like nothing had happened, and except for the faint smell of burnt wiring on the air, no one would be able to tell any different.

Not that he expected that people wouldn't talk about it. This was Stars Hollow. Gossip spread like the plague, often with just as many negative side-effects. And the rats. Both caused by rats, he figured. Smarmy little rodents who clung to any piece of garbage they found. The people of Stars Hollow didn't seem to have twitchy tails, but he wondered about some of them.

The crowd outside had abated somewhat, apparently bored by the lack of new action. People still lingered, giving his place more than a passing look, and his regulars would be beside themselves without their morning usuals.

That was their problem. Not his. He had enough problems without worrying about the habits of his fellow townspeople. Some days, he had a sliver of patience for them. Today? Not so much. Seeing a kid get fried sort of did that to a guy.

Ceasar had progressed to the dustpan, pushing the remnants of the day's damage into it. "I found this," Ceasar said, holding up a blackened screwdriver. "Didn't know if it was yours."

Dean's screwdriver. The one Dean had offered him in response to a smart-mouth comment. The one that Dean had probably stuck in the outlet.

Luke swallowed hard, taking the screwdriver and shoving it roughly in his pocket. As if his morning hadn't been crappy enough, now he was suffering from guilt trips induced by common household tools.

"So we ready to open?" Ceasar asked.

Ready to open? The outlet still didn't work, the counter had no power, and the crowds would be asking question after question. In the grander scheme of things, it wasn't all that unusual. Nothing he really couldn't handle.

But he had a damn screwdriver in his pocket and Dean was at the hospital and Luke didn't even know if the kid were alive or dead, twitching or breathing or _anything_.

This shouldn't bother him. He should just open the doors and serve some coffee and move on with life.

But he had a _screwdriver _in his pocket and he kept seeing Dean holding it out to him, asking if he was so smart, why didn't he do it himself. Asking him to check the power.

"Can you cover the place yourself? Call in someone to wait the tables?"

Ceasar looked perplexed. "I guess, I mean--"

"Good," Luke said curtly. "I'll be back later."

"But, I--"

"Figure it out," he growled, moving toward the door. "Figure it out."

Before the cook could reply, Luke was out the door. The sunlight was brighter than he would have liked and he squinted, pushing forward despite the crowd he could feel being drawn to him. Little old ladies, wrinkled old men, busy body housewives, late-running businessmen. All with the question in their mouths; the question Luke wasn't sure he was ready to answer.

Someone called his name. Multiple someones. Concerned, curious--it didn't matter. Rats were rats and Luke didn't have time for this. There were priorities here. Like making sure he hadn't killed the kid for good. Like trying to make it right with _Dean_. Then he'd worry about the rat infestation that would surely be brewing for him back home.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Here's the last part. I'm tickled to find other Dean Forester fans out there. Much more so to find people in need of some limp!cute!Dean. It's just so much fun to write! Which, I am pleased to say, means there is more where this comes from. When I will get it up, I'm not sure. My life is in an utter state of flux and chaos right now, but I do plan to play with Dean some more :) Still thanks to geminigrl11 and sendintheclowns. Speak nicely to sendintheclowns; she has some Dean stuff up her sleeve, too.

-o-

**Part Two**

It took him nearly half a day to get to the hospital.

Not because it was far or hard to find but because he couldn't quite find the courage. He'd walked out of the diner easy enough, screwdriver ready to go, but actually _going_ to the hospital? Made him feel utterly ridiculous. Not to mention incredibly guilty.

He killed time at the flower shop, because you were supposed to take flowers for people in the hospital, right? But he didn't know what kind of flowers to get and it just seemed weird to think about carrying flowers to Dean's hospital room. As if flowers would be enough of an apology for nearly killing him.

And that was the other thing. He didn't actually know if Dean was _alive_ and, if he had to be honest with himself, he wasn't sure he _wanted_ to know. Just in case, well...

Just in case things _weren't_ okay.

How he killed the rest of the hours, Luke wasn't sure, but it was late afternoon by the time he worked up the courage to enter those double swinging doors.

Despite living in Stars Hollow for his entire life, the hospital was still relatively unknown to Luke. Of course he knew where it was, but he had to admit, he'd never had much cause to go there. And it wasn't like hospitals were fun places to hang out. Death and disease and whatnot were kind of foreboding even to the most together of people.

Still, walking inside, he was surprised how utterly foreign it felt, how it made his skin crawl. And he hadn't even gotten past the admission desk.

The girl at the counter smiled at him, but she looked tired. "Can I help you?"

"Yeah, um," he began, looking around. There were doctors and nurses but it was quieter than he would have expected.

When he didn't continue, she raised her eyebrows, cocking her head. "Can I help you find someone?"

There was the question he was trying to ask. "Yes. Dean Forester. He was just brought in. Is he...is he okay?" Luke asked, feeling suddenly stupid. Surely he could come up with some a little more intelligent than that.

The girl checked her computer monitor with vague disinterest. "He's still being treated. If you'd like to have a seat in the waiting room..."

The brush off. Polite and professional, but a brush off nonetheless. Undoubtedly, this girl had gotten such things down to an art. She hadn't just been hired for her good organizational skills, but her ability to get rid of people without making them feel like the nuisances they were.

He nodded vaguely. Waiting room. He could do that. He was already here, he might as well wait. He did have a screwdriver to deliver after all, and he certainly did not feel ready to head back to the diner already.

Besides, if he was going to make an idiot of himself, he was going to make an idiot of himself. He was on a head-on collision with his own sense of duty and there was no getting away from that now. Idiocy, once in motion, was rather hard to prevent.

He'd expected the waiting room to be fuller. With more people. Waiting, as it was. Instead, there was just a handful and as he was about to settle himself into a seat, he realized that he wasn't the only person waiting on one Dean Forester.

Dean's parents were not well-known to him. There was no reason they should be. They were just parents of some kid in town who he happened to know. He'd seen them from time to time, mostly at the softball games, but he'd exchanged so few words with them that he hardly even counted them as acquaintances.

However, they seemed to know him.

The recognition was nearly immediate on their faces--a brightening amidst the distress that made Luke suddenly wished he'd stayed at the diner after all.

The silence that ensued was awkward and long, and Luke wasn't entirely sure what to do. _Hey, sorry for electrocuting your kid _really didn't sound right, and it was about all he could think of.

Then May Forester smiled. Actually _smiled_.

Her smile was almost sad, so sad and so grateful and so _pathetic_ that it made Luke feel sad and grateful and pathetic just to be looking at her. He didn't know what to expect to come out of her mouth--grief over her son's condition, rage at what had happened, disdain for the man who had caused it.

So her "Thank you" was more than a bit of a surprise.

He furrowed his brow. "Excuse me?"

She smiled again. "Thank you," she repeated. "For saving Dean's life. The doctor said...the doctor said if you hadn't been there, he would have died. He never would have survived without oxygen that long."

Next to her, Randy Forester nodded, his own eyes weary and downcast. "I swear that boy is nothing but trouble," he said. "I love him, he's my son, but I wonder what happened to that bright, responsible boy I raised. The one I used to count on for things, to think ahead, to do the right thing."

May sniffled. "Now all the fiascos with his marriage and the affair, how he didn't go back to college, and now this--sometimes I wonder if he wants it like that," she confessed, fingering her tissue. "Like maybe he didn't check the power on purpose."

Her husband's hand fell gently on her shoulder and he pulled her close as a tear leaked from her eye. He shushed her, looking back up at Luke with a depth of gratitude and desperation that made Luke wish he'd stay far away from there.

But he needed to tell them. He needed to tell them that it wasn't Dean's fault. That Dean hadn't screwed up. That Dean had been right about the entire situation. That this was _Luke's _fault.

And he was going to. He was. That was why he'd come down here to begin with. To apologize, to make it right. So why couldn't he say anything, why couldn't he _do_ anything?

Randy was leading his wife to a chair, sitting her down next to Dean's younger sister, patting her gently, soothingly, and all Luke could do was watch, mouth slightly open. He was a _coward_.

Standing again, Randy returned to his side, pulling him away from his wife and daughter. "Look," he said. "I know you've done so much for us--"

Luke opened his mouth to protest, but Randy stopped him.

"But I was wondering if I could ask a favor of you," he continued. "I need to get my wife home, let her rest and take Clara. They don't need to be here. It's been stressful enough as it is. We've been in to see him and they're just getting him transferred to a room. I'll stay the night with Dean if they'll let me, but until then will you sit with him? Just until I get back? I just...I don't trust him alone."

Dean alone wasn't the problem. Trusting Dean alone with _Luke_--well, that might be more of an issue.

But the man was so sincere, so damn earnest, and Luke had gotten them into this mess, so he couldn't just leave them hanging. Not when they were so close to falling apart as it was.

He nodded, closing his mouth and swallowing. "Yeah," he said, then gathered his strength. "Sure, no problem."

Randy smiled broadly. "Good man," he said. "I shouldn't be long. Not more than a half hour. I appreciate this--I appreciate _all_ of this."

Appreciation, thanks, gratitude. Things Luke couldn't fight. It was his curse--to be so guilty and not have anyone blame him for it. He'd thought that the blame would be worse, that everyone knowing he was a careless SOB who got kids electrocuted would be damning enough. But this? This was unreasonable punishment.

Randy went back to his wife, gathering her to her feet and ushering her toward the exit, Clara on their heels. They were a withdrawn bunch, because their son had nearly died (which was Luke's fault) and because they thought that Dean was stupid enough to do it to himself (which was also Luke's fault).

He couldn't change the first one, but maybe he could change the second one. Right when Randy got back. They'd talk, man to man, and Luke would tell him everything. Not that Dean was some amazing kid or something, because Luke had always had his doubts. But that the kid wasn't a total failure at life, which was what everyone seemed to think these days.

Everyone including his parents, his sister, _Luke_.

Luke looked down at the screwdriver in his hand. It had been stupid to come here. Stupid.

But it was too late to back out now.

Sucking in a deep breath, he strode forward, in search of Dean's room.

-o-

The staff hadn't really wanted to let him in. He wasn't family and visiting hours weren't really supposed to be going on, and this was the _ICU _for crying out loud. And really, Luke would have been fine with that. Waiting for word in the waiting room like a normal human being. After all, it was called the _waiting_ room, which made it the place for waiting. For people to wake up, get out of surgery, things like that. Waiting for some kid's parents to come back so Luke could explain the situation seemed to be perfect for that kind of place.

But the instant the nurse realized who he was, he didn't have a choice. Not that she recognized him. Sure, his diner was popular, but as far as being a celebrity, he certainly wasn't. She didn't recognize _him_, but she was quick to pick up on the fact that he was the one who had performed the CPR that had apparently made it possible for Dean to be alive at all.

It would have been humbling were it not so embarrassingly misplaced. Despite that, within five minutes, he was at the door to an ICU cubicle, the nurse prattling on about procedures and equipment and talking just about as fast as Lorelai. In truth, he understood about half as much as with her--at least Lorelai tended to use words he knew. Things like intravenous medication and arrhythmic heartbeats were a little out of the range of his normal vocabulary.

"But he should be _fine_," she said finally, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Scans aren't showing evidence of damage. The heart rate should even out as his body recovers and he should be off the vent within a day, just until his body gets its bearings back. It's a little overwhelming, but for a hero like you, I'm sure you'll be just fine."

Luke was too dazed to reply, so he just nodded, although the second she walked away, he'd wished he'd never let her go.

Because here he was at Dean's _hospital_ room. Sure, he had known the kid a little--Rory was nearly as consistently in his life as Lorelai was and Rory's friends were inevitably his customers. Not to mention the fact that he knew every detail of Rory's life and the people in it by the sheer virtue of knowing Lorelai and being subjected to her daily ramblings. So he'd seen the kid through various things, not really as a part of the kid's life by choice, but by accident and fault. He'd been there when Dean was too drunk to stop himself from talking and when the kid had been too stupid to acknowledge what he felt the next day. He'd been there when Dean'd been too stupid to stay faithful to his wife and when he'd been just stupid enough to think that he and Rory had a real second (third? fourth? who _knew_?) chance.

He'd liked the kid and disliked the kid and mostly had never really thought much about the kid at all. Because Dean Forester wasn't _anything_ to him.

So, of all the people to be at Dean's hospital room, Luke figured he was really about the worst possible choice.

But he was the one who'd forgotten about the power. He was the one who'd just promised Dean's father he'd stay. And so he was the one who had to walk in there and babysit an unconscious kid.

He'd just performed CPR. Surely he could manage sitting.

The minute he walked inside, though, he knew it would never be that easy. Not because sitting suddenly became more difficult, but because Dean looked awful. The kid was still pale, as pale as he'd been on the floor of the diner, his eyelashes stark against his milky skin. His hair was still a mess, not that it ever looked particularly orderly these days, but it still had the flyaway look, and Luke could see how fried it was around the edges.

The kid's hands were at his side and bandaged, undoubtedly from the burns. He was covered loosely in a hospital gown, which made him look bigger somehow, now that his body wasn't covered by the layers he seemed to like to wear. The kid had grown, Luke was sure, in his time since Rory. Bulked out a bit. Aged some.

But that wasn't really the problem. Nor were the monitors or the beeping or the IVs strung from his arm.

It was the tube in his mouth. The vent, Luke realized. He'd seen those on TV before, but they always looked so much smaller then, less obtrusive.

In this case, it was all he could really focus on.

He'd _saved_ the kid, right? So why did Dean look so bad? And why did Luke feel so terrified?

Because Dean looked vulnerable. He looked young and innocent and just plain _fragile_, and Luke did _not_ like feeling like he was responsible for that--on any level. He didn't want it to be his fault, he didn't want to be the one to sit the bedside vigil. That was what girlfriends and mothers and best friends were for. Not mere acquaintances who were on strained terms. Maybe it would have been different if Dean and Rory were still going out, or if even Luke was on completely solid footing with Lorelai. But Dean had told him once, about dating Gilmore women. About how they wanted more, and how Luke was still trying to be that more for Lorelai. Turned out the little punk was basically right, and Luke had never really made a point to talk to him again. He hadn't lost Lorelai, but he didn't quite have her either, and it was complicated and sometimes Luke couldn't help but wonder when the other shoe was going to fall when it came to her.

So what was he doing here?

Fulfilling a promise? Assuaging his guilt? Becoming the male version of a Gilmore, obsessing uncontrollably to the point of being incapable of coherent thought and action?

That thought was scary enough to make him move again, not that there was any place to go. Feeling out of place, he looked down at his hands, remembering the screwdriver. He laughed.

"I brought you your screwdriver," he said finally. He shrugged a little, turning the small tool in his hand. "Screwdrivers are pretty handy. Versatile. I figured you might need it."

He looked up again, eyeing the young man on the bed. Dean didn't move, didn't twitch, just breathed in and out, in and out. Which was what people were supposed to do, so Luke couldn't quite figure out why it seemed so _wrong_.

"I probably should have brought the rest of your toolbox," he said absently, approaching the bedside. He glanced at the wires and tubing. "But, uh, it looks like you might not need it for awhile."

Tentatively, he pocketed the screwdriver. "You know, I'll just hold it, for now. I wouldn't want some nurse to steal it. Not that the nurse would steal it, but just in case. But they shouldn't need a screwdriver here, at least I wouldn't think so. I would guess they have their own screwdrivers to fix the equipment and stuff."

He could hear the beat of Dean's heart beeping electronically next to his head.

"Not that the equipment needs fixing," Luke assured him. "Besides, you're going to be off all this stuff soon. Then you can use your screwdriver for other things."

He _was_ becoming Lorelai Gilmore. Years of her presence had reduced him to this. A babbling idiot trying to offer comatose people screwdrivers.

Fear of irreversible neurosis left him quiet. The room buzzed with the electronic equipment and he could hear the soft sounds of the ward right outside the door. This was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. He didn't do bedside vigils. He didn't even know how. He didn't even _know_ this kid, not really. He knew Dean liked cars. He knew Dean worked at the market and for Tom. He knew that Dean had always loved Rory Gilmore and never been good enough for her. He knew that Dean'd married far too young to a girl he would never love and then cheated on her anyway.

Luke knew that Dean could fix an electrical outlet, that he remembered to turn off the power.

But that didn't tell him anything. Didn't tell him enough to help him figure out anything to say to Dean. Didn't help him figure out who Dean's friends were, how he felt about his family, what he wanted to do with his life, if he had plans beyond being a stock boy and a fix-it man.

The kid was alive, thanks to him, but nearly dead, also thanks to him, and Luke just wished he knew more about him, knew more about what to say, knew more about how to make it right.

Sighing, he checked his watch, wondering just how long it'd be before Randy came back. The kid needed someone closer to him to be here, needed someone whose voice mattered.

Sitting himself in a chair, he just wished he could trust that Randy could be that person for his son. But he'd seen the look in the man's eyes. Love coupled with almost an equal weight of disappointment. And expectation, like a screw-up was expected. Surely Dean deserved _better_ than that. Surely _anyone_ deserved better than that, no matter how many stupid things they'd done.

But these weren't things Luke could figure out. Weren't things he could fix. All he could do was sit there, keep the kid company, and hope that he didn't die after all this because Luke felt guilty enough as it was.

-o-

By the time he made it back to the diner, it was late afternoon. Dean's father had come back and thanked him--again and _again_ for all he'd done. Luke had tried to tell him otherwise, tried to explain what _really _happened. But Randy had just _looked_ at him with some look of resigned gratitude, certain that Luke was just covering for Dean's juvenile mistake. Luke might have expected that from someone else, but from the kid's father?

It seemed wrong, but Luke didn't have the energy to fight it. Not then. He'd spent a half hour carrying on a conversation with an unconscious kid and he just needed to _leave_.

Too bad leaving just made things worse.

The diner _still_ smelled like Ceasar had burnt the pancakes again, and it was abuzz with people. His normal lunch rush should have been long over, but the crowd still persisted into the noon hours. Just like rats, looking for some scrap to eat.

He deflected questions, offered curt replies, and shunned any and all praise. If he could ignore what happened, maybe it hadn't happened at all. If he could ignore the questions, maybe he could ignore the truth.

Denial wasn't a pretty thing, but Luke had never cared much about how he looked.

When he was finally closed for the night, the tables bussed and the dishes cleaned, he found himself alone at the counter, looking over it, studying it almost as if he'd never seen it before. The pans were cleaned and back in place, and he could hardly notice the now-missing glassware. It looked so normal, just as it always has. Almost like this morning hadn't happened.

The town would forget. Give it a day, two, and no one would remember. No one would care. Old news wasn't news at all and Stars Hollow was always on the lookout for the next big thing. Taylor's latest ploy, Rory's latest exploit. Something. Anything.

Not Dean Forester forgetting to check the electricity. Not Luke Danes bringing Dean Forester back to life. Not Luke Danes playing the part of the reluctant hero, who was only a hero because he'd caused the situation in the first place.

None of it.

Just life.

-o-

If he'd really thought that things would be better in the morning, he'd been a moron. He did manage to shower and eat breakfast like a normal human being. He even went through the motions of prepping the diner for opening. The typical stuff. The easy stuff. And the morning crowd came in, full of questions.

He took their orders, gave them sarcasm for their answers, and tried his best to pretend he was deaf.

That worked for all of four hours.

He wasn't sure what made him snap. He'd gotten questions all morning. He'd even gotten countless fawnings from women impressed with his heroic feat. So what it was about that little old lady, seated at the table by the window, nursing her cup of coffee and nibbling on her Cobb salad, he really wasn't quite sure. Maybe it was the nasal quality of her voice. Maybe it was the penetrating scent of her perfume. Or maybe he'd just reached some internal quota he had, the limit of what he could handle, before he snapped.

She'd dropped little comments all throughout his time waiting on her. But it was when she said, "I always thought you had such a heroic build," that he just couldn't take it. Being hit on by old women was one thing. Being called heroic after nearly killing a kid was another.

"You know what?" he said. "I'm not a hero."

"Oh, yes you are!" she insisted. The she leaned forward, smiling. "Your modesty, however, is quite becoming."

"I'm not being modest!" he exploded. "You people don't have any _idea_ what happened!"

"We know enough," she said, that sly smile on her face. Sly like she knew something. Like she was just playing coy. "That boy made a mistake, and you were the one to pull him back."

"That's _not_ what happened," he said, and was aware suddenly of how the entire diner was watching him. "You have no _idea_."

"Then tell us," she said, all too earnest. "I would _love_ to hear the details."

It was like a sideshow. Some kind of heroic exploit that everyone was salivating to know about. And the truth was that Luke was a moron who didn't check the electricity and Dean Forester was in a hospital bed because of it. There had to be justice, somehow. Something, even in a place as backwards and slow to catch on to reality as Stars Hollow, had to make it right.

"You know, what, it's time for you to go now," he said finally, his voice low. "We're closing."

"You can't close now," she said, almost indignant and the sour turn of his voice. "Your sign says open."

She was pretty gleeful about that observation, like it took some kind of _genius_ to read an Open sign. Which was okay with Luke. Because if she wanted to make stupid comments to justify herself, he had stupid solutions to overcome them. "Fine," he said, his voice even. He stalked over to the door, turning the sign around in a huff. "Now we're _closed_."

She gaped, her mouth hanging open indignantly. "Well, I never!"

"Oh, yes, you have," Luke assured her. Then he looked around at his smattering of costumers. "That goes for all of you--out!"

There were protests and complaints, but Luke paid them no heed. "No charge," he said. "Stuff what you can in your mouth and get out."

The little old lady was the first on her feet, her chest puffed up as though she was fending off a mortal hurt.

Luke just stared at her, deadpan eyes, aware of the people filtering out the door and the glares they cast his way. When it seemed that the rest had gone, she turned on her heal, flouncing a bit as she did, and huffed herself right out the door.

He nearly let himself breathe, when Ceasar stuck his head out the back. "I've got the eggs," he said. Then he seemed to realize there was no one there. "Did I do something wrong? The bread is only a day over the expiration date, I swear, and I checked it for mold!"

"Never mind!" Luke said. "Go home. Come back tomorrow when I actually don't want to strangle every person I see."

Ceasar raised his eyebrows. "But, I--"

"Home!" Luke insisted. "Now. Go."

"Okay, okay," he said. "Just let me turn off the stove."

Heading around the back of the counter, Luke muttered, "Great." He rested his hands heavily on it, leaning against it, barely looking up as the cook made his way out the front door.

At the door, Ceasar hesitated. "Are you sure--"

"Leave," Luke said, his exasperation evident. "Just leave before I fire you."

The younger man held up his hands in submission. "Alright," he said. "If you need anything--"

"Yeah, yeah."

The door shut behind him and the diner was plunged into silence. The late morning sun was shining brightly now, filling the windows and warming the place. A perfect day. Just a perfect day.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. Perfect day for the perfect hero in the perfect town. Perfect, perfect, perfect.

If everything was so perfect, then why did he feel so crappy? Why did he feel like he was carrying a secret the size of China inside of him? Why did he feel like a liar and a cheat and the worst human being alive?

Maybe because he _was_. He hadn't quite lied--not quite. But omission counted, he was pretty sure, or at least he'd always held other people responsible for it. And okay, so cheating was really the right term, unless cheating some poor kid of his dignity while he was unconscious and on life support counted.

Worst human being ever. Unworthy. Not good enough. Terms he'd tossed around before, things he'd felt for other people. For Dean. Because if he was honest with himself, he didn't _like_ the kid. Hadn't liked him since he'd played games with Rory's heart, tried to take Rory and keep his cute little wife, too. The kid wasn't _good _enough. Luke didn't think he was the best person in the world, not by a long shot, but he liked to think he did the best he could. That he made more right decisions than wrong ones, that he had some leg to stand on when it came to making the _right_ choice.

Until Dean Forester got himself electrocuted and Luke felt like it'd been _him _who'd been shocked. Fluke passing of the electrical current via CPR? Possible. The guilt of knowing he'd done the wrong thing? All too probable.

He could sit by Dean's side, he could kick out from everyone from the diner, but that didn't change how he felt about himself.

There was just one thing to do. Well, actually there many things to do and many more he _could_ do. He could go get wasted, but he figured that'd just cause more harm than good. Because the last thing he needed was the reputation of a hero turned drunk running around town. People were already difficult enough to deal with as it was and he didn't need someone trying to teach him the twelve steps.

Twelve steps, one step, fifty billion steps. It wouldn't get him any closer to where he needed to be or any farther from where he was.

Which was where exactly? Someplace where he didn't neglect to check the electricity? Someplace where he wasn't lauded as some kind of hero?

Any place but here.

He needed to go see Dean Forester. After all, he did still have a screwdriver to return.

-o-

The nurse from yesterday recognized him immediately. "It's the local hero!" she exclaimed. "Are you here to check up on him? He's doing much better today."

"Uh, yeah," Luke said. "How's he doing?" Yes, she had just said he was doing _better_ but that was about as specific as telling a little kid that the wait would be over _soon_. _Better_ sounded nice, and he supposed it was better than hearing _worse_ but it still didn't answer any of the burning questions that he had running through his mind. Like was he a murderer by accident after all? Did he have to live in perpetual guilt after having stolen some kid's youth from him? Would he ever be able to have a normal life again or would the weight of an accidental electrocution haunt him the rest of his days?

If the nurse noticed these questions lurking in his eyes, she didn't comment. Her happy-go-lucky smile didn't even flicker. She seemed so pepped up on feel-good that Luke doubted anything could dissuade her from it. "He's off the ventilator and we've moved him to a regular room. I suspect the doctor will be releasing him tomorrow. They like to monitor patients after electrical shocks for any persistent abnormalities that can sometimes occur. But he's awake and alert and oriented. His parents have been around, but I'm sure he'd love to see the guy who saved his life."

Her smile was so damn bright and airy, like she was all sunshine and rainbows and lollipops. He couldn't bring himself to contradict her. "Can I see him?"

"Just follow me," she said brightly, bright enough to make Luke wished he'd never gotten out of bed this morning. The fact that he'd hardly been _in_ bed notwithstanding, of course.

She left him with a knowing grin outside of a room, nodding him inside before she took off merrily down the hall. Luke hesitated, suddenly feeling ridiculous. He didn't belong here--he hadn't belonged here yesterday, so he wasn't sure why he thought he belonged here now. He could say he was here for Dean, to make amends, but he was really here more for himself. He'd spent one sleepless night in his apartment. He wasn't sure he could suffer another--much less the loss of business by closing the diner at 9 AM every morning whenever some customer had the audacity to try to make small talk. Luke had never been friendly, but even he could recognize the folly of such actions.

Whatever his reasons, he was here. He was here and Dean was right on the other side of the door and all he had to do was knock.

"Oh, Luke!"

He jumped and turned to face the voice. May Forester was walking up to the room, a cup of coffee in her hand.

"I'm so glad you're here," she said. "I'm sure Dean will love to see you."

Luke opened his mouth to speak and all that came out was, "Okay."

She smiled, letting herself in, and Luke had no choice but to follow.

Dean was on a different bed, this time sitting up. He looked less pale, though the hospital gown and fluorescent lighting didn't do much to cover up how tired the kid seemed. When he saw Luke, he stiffened a little, and Luke felt his guilt spike.

"Dean, Luke came by to see you," his mother said, unnecessarily.

At this, Dean forced a smile.

Luke felt compelled to talk. "I was just, you know, in the neighborhood."

"Isn't that sweet," May said, taking a sip of her coffee. "I've been trying to raise Dean's spirits all morning. Trying to convince him how lucky he is."

Dean looked miserable, his face paling as he looked away.

"Isn't that right, sweetheart?" she said, looking at Dean.

"Yeah," the kid said. He looked up, meeting Luke's eyes and the seriousness there was a little unnerving. "I'm very appreciative."

Luke listened for malice, for frustration, for some kind of hidden anger. But it wasn't there. The kid just sounded drained. Drained and...honest?

"I've also been telling him how careful he needs to be," she said. "Fixing outlets without checking the electricity. Really, Dean."

"It's my fault," Luke blurted. "I'm to blame."

She looked surprised, her eyes widening as she looked up at him. "Excuse me?"

And there it was. His moment of truth. Confession, good for the soul, the right thing, time to man up to the situation and stop letting the kid take the fall for his own stupidity.

He opened his mouth again, but no words came out. May was looking at him, just _looking_ at him, her eyes waiting, her expression guarded. How could he tell her that he'd nearly gotten her son killed? That her "hero" was nothing more than a smart-mouthed coward who would rather win a battle of wits than take two extra minutes to make sure things were safe?

So why was it so hard? Why was it so hard to say "I didn't check the power for him?" Why was it so hard to throw down his reputation and let everyone know he'd done the wrong thing? It didn't make him the scourge of the earth. People would understand that, forgive that--wouldn't they?

"He just feels guilty, Mom." It was Dean who spoke.

Luke looked at him, propped up on the bed. He looked better, sure, but still a little pale and tired. The kid needed a nice, long nap from the looks of it and instead he was caught between his mother and a negligent diner-owner, neither of whom seemed to be set on making things easier for him.

"For what?" she asked, her eyes going to Dean.

"Well, it was his outlet that zapped me," he said, trying to smile. "But it's not his fault. No more than it is your fault."

"But you work in _construction_, honey," she said, her voice insistent. "You know _better_ than this. I don't understand what you were thinking, what you were trying to do. Dean, you--you worry me, I--"

"No, Mom, look," Dean said. He smiled sheepishly. "It was an accident, okay? Just an accident. I forgot to check the power. It happens."

She looked uncertain, her eyes flickering between her son and Luke before her mouth thinned out into a straight line. "You didn't do it on purpose?"

The grin faltered and a hint of hurt passed over the kid's face. "Seriously," he said, swallowing hard. "It was early. I had a bunch of projects I needed to get done before I had another shift at the market. I was in a rush and I just didn't do what I was supposed to do."

At that, his mother deflated, both looking relieved and disappointed all at once. "Well next time you check, young man," she scolded, and her own voice sounded strained, more like she was a weary mother dealing with a rambunctious two-year-old. She stood, smoothing her pants. "Well, I'll just leave you two alone. I'm sure you have a lot to discuss."

As she passed, she gave Dean an exhausted look before turning a hopeful one to Luke. Like she believed he could fix this. Make it right. As if performing CPR one someone made him capable of fixing anything.

When she was gone, he found he couldn't bring his eyes up off the floor. It was Dean who spoke first, "You look like crap."

Surprised, Luke looked up. "And you look like a picture of health," he shot back. "Your hair still has that 80s feel to it."

Dean offered a half-smile. "It's bound to come back."

"And you didn't even have to use hairspray," Luke said. "Very environmentally friendly of you."

"Of course. The new eco-friendly way to style your hair. I'm sure it'd be huge in Europe. If they could just figure out how to stop people from ending up in the hospital every time they try it."

Luke's face darkened. "Why didn't you tell her the truth? About what happened?"

Dean just blinked at him. "The truth?"

"That you didn't forget to check the power."

"People will believe what they want to believe," Dean said, shrugging lightly. "No sense in making things more complicated than that. They have their story. They'll stick to it, truth or no truth."

Luke sighed, frustrated. Dean made it sound so simple, so obvious, so rational to be lying about whose fault this was. "Look, Dean, I know what you're trying to do--"

The kid shook his head. "I don't think you do," he said. "Look, this just doesn't matter. I'm already fodder for town gossip no matter what I do. If I go to a bar, they talk. If I look at a girl, they talk. If I work eighty hours a week, they talk. I've been doomed to this since the beginning, since the first time..."

Since the first time that he and Rory had broken up. Rory was the golden girl--she had the family, she had the looks, and she had the personality, not to mention the brains. Everyone loved Rory. Any guy with a brain in his head mooned after her. Any girl who was open enough could bond with her. The adults, the aged, those who had been around the block, looked at her and thought that maybe the future of Stars Hollow had potential after all.

When Rory was hurt, it was never her fault. When Rory was alone, she was never to blame. He'd believed that, believed that Dean had been the one to blame for the breakups, first, last and otherwise.

"So I'm used to it," Dean concluded, trying to smile. "No sense in ruining the reputation of two people in this town. Besides, even if you told them the truth, it'd still come back to me. Don't put yourself through the grief. It's not worth it."

The words were so reasonable, so plain, that Luke almost wanted to agree. Because it would be easier that way. To let the town think that Dean was his own worst enemy, that Luke was nothing but a hero.

But they'd all be wrong. He could hear the unspoken words in Dean's voice. Not that _it_ wasn't worth it. That _he _wasn't worth it. Maybe his mother was right to suspect that Dean's accident wasn't so accidental. This kid was practically oozing self-deprecation at dangerous levels, and the smiles and light tones thinly veiled the hurt.

"But it _is_ worth it," Luke said. He took off his cap and ran a hand through his hair before pulling it back on. "I've been going crazy with this. I nearly got you _killed_."

"But you didn't."

Luke shot him a dead-serious look. "You do know what the purpose of CPR is, don't you? Because I'm pretty sure it's not a recommended pastime for the living."

Dean blanched a little, and sighed, sinking back against the pillows. "You saved my life," he said. "No matter how it happened, you saved my life. Most people wouldn't think it's much worth saving, but I'm grateful for it anyway."

"Ah, man," Luke said, turning away. "Not you, too. If one more person _thanks_ me--"

"Did you or did you not save my life?"

Luke's shoulders sagged. "Well, I guess--"

"Then I get to thank you whether you like it or not."

"And did I or did I not get you electrocuted?"

"You didn't."

"What?" Luke exclaimed.

"I'm still alive. It was an electrical shock," Dean said, grinning shyly. "The doctor took great detail in explaining the difference. You can only die of electrocution. If I'm alive, it was nothing but a shock. And that's not so bad, right?"

Luke's mouth hung open. "Are you serious?"

The kid shrugged again. "Seems to be true," he said, nonchalant. "So if you go all over town saying you got me _electrocuted_, then you really aren't anything but a liar."

Semantics. The damn kid could be as frustrating as a Gilmore. While Luke had plenty of experience arguing in circles, it was an exercise he did not relish. "You're so missing the point."

Dean rolled his eyes at that. "No, _you're _missing the point," he said. "You can feel guilty all you want, fine. Next time, check the power. But you didn't _mean_ to do anything. And it's not like I couldn't have done it myself either. And the fact of the matter is that people _want_ to see you as the hero. They always have. Despite all your angry airs, people know how soft you are. You fit the part. Me? I fit the part of the rejected screw up who keeps creating disaster after disaster for himself. There's nothing for me here."

It was Luke who was taken aback, surprised by the intensity of Dean's words, surprised by the truth of them. "Dean, I--"

"I don't need your pity," the kid replied. "I did most of it to myself. I was an idiot and an asshole and anything they say about me and my marriage is well-deserved. Not to mention how stupid I was thinking that Rory and I had a chance after that. I'm not going to look for sympathy when I _am_ the screw-up. It's just Stars Hollow that doesn't really believe people can change. We are who we are and that's who we'll always be."

And damn it if the kid wasn't _right _about that, too. About Stars Hollow, about his own mistakes, about who he'd always be in this town. Suddenly, it wasn't fair. "That's not fair."

Okay, so not his most eloquent response, but this wasn't Luke's thing. Dean apparently understood, because he smiled again. "Thanks for stating the obvious," he said. "But I moved past that about six months ago. Time to let it go."

"Let it go? How?"

"By getting out," Dean said simply. "No one knows yet, not even my parents. But I don't just take the extra hours to fill my time. I got into UConn. I'm leaving in August. My housing, my classes--they're all set. But the tuition's a bear, so I need all the change I can get."

That was a bit of news he hadn't expected. Luke didn't try to keep up with the town gossip, but it seemed to keep up with him, with everyone from Lorelai to the little old ladies spilling their knowledge onto his counter. But Dean must have kept this as tight to the vest as he'd said; no one had breathed a word.

"That's...great," he said, processing it. "That's fantastic. Why haven't you told anyone yet?"

At this, Dean looked wistful, casting his gaze toward the window. "Because I'm not doing it for them," he said softly. "Not for the town, not for Rory, not for my parents. No one wanted to be there for me when I fell apart. So I don't need anyone there when I get it back together, either."

Bitter, maybe, but also...mature? Surprisingly sane? Everything that should be said but nothing he'd expected?

Dean glanced back at him, tentatively. "So that's why I'm thanking you," he said. "You saved my life and for the first time in a long time, I think it might actually be worth saving. We can just leave it at that."

Luke was supposed to say _something_. There had to be something to say, some kind of response. The kid had just said something extremely personal to him, just confessed something that no one else knew, and all Luke could do was stand there like some kind of idiot.

He huffed, too proud or too macho or just too _Luke_ to let emotion show. "So how is it that I get you electrocuted--"

"--shocked--"

"--whatever, and then you end up confessing things and thanking me? Don't you know how to milk a situation when you see one? You know, pandering for a lifetime supply of coffee or something. Free waffles, at least."

The seriousness faded slightly on Dean's face as he gave a soft snort of laughter. "I enjoy making life difficult. I must be a masochist."

"You and me both," Luke said. He paused, hesitating. "Is there anything else you need?"

"You've done more than enough," Dean said. "And I'm sorry about your outlet. I can probably get it fixed once I get out of here. That is, of course, if Tom doesn't fire me."

"Why would he fire you?"

"Keeping employees who get themselves electrocuted--"

"I thought you got shocked."

"Whatever--it's not good for business."

It was Luke's turn to roll his eyes. "I'll talk to him, okay?"

Dean cocked his head curious, before nodding. "Okay."

Luke wiped his hands on his jeans, gathering himself. "Well," he said. "I guess I'd better let you get back to resting. And I better get back to work."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, sure."

"So, uh," Luke said, hoping something intelligent would come to mind. "See you."

Intelligent, not so much. Practical, always.

"Yeah," Dean replied. "See you."

Luke gave him one more look, tried to smile, before he hurried from the room.

In the hall, it was quiet, an occasional nurse here or there, and Luke realized how fast his heart was beating. Not because he was overly nervous or relieved or anything. But because it all surprised him. The emotions. Seeing that kid, lying in that bed, _thanking _him and meaning it. Really meaning it. And knowing what people thought of him, what _Luke_ had thought of him, and realizing there was so much he'd never had a clue about. That most people still didn't have a clue about.

He'd wondered what Rory had seen in Dean, all along. Why he was worth going back to.

Now he couldn't help but wonder why she'd let him leave so many times to begin with.

There were two sides to every story. Two realities. What people wanted to believe and what really happened. Sometimes, he supposed, they could be the same things. But in Stars Hollow--in Stars Hollow maybe they hardly ever were.

Sighing, he made his way down the hall, wondering if he'd be able to keep up appearances, to hold onto his poker face as well as Dean had.

Time would tell. Only time would tell.

-o-

Turned out Tom wasn't keen on hiring Dean out anymore, but at Luke's insistence, Dean got to keep his hours, and his first job was to finish the repair on the outlet. It was an easy job, and Dean was done in little over fifteen minutes. Luke wondered why it hadn't been so simple the first time.

He didn't see much of Dean beyond that. The kid didn't come in for food, and Luke figured part of that was to save money, and part of it was because Dean probably didn't feel like he had any friends left there. The kid had stopped being a regular when he left Rory's life and Luke hadn't thought twice about it.

His ears perked up at the gossip as he took orders, and he hoped to hear something new, some kind of news about Dean. But there wasn't anything, and Luke tried to figure out just how the kid managed to keep a secret that well.

But secrets must have been Dean's new specialty. No one talked about his impending flight to college. No one talked about how that day at the diner was Luke's fault. No one talked, in fact, about Dean at all.

It was Lorelai who told him, as she nursed a cup of coffee at a table with Rory. "Did you hear?" she asked, looking up at him.

"Hear what?" he grumbled, brushing past her to refill Mrs. Southerby's coffee cup.

"About Dean," she said.

"Dean?" he asked.

"Forester. You know, tall kid, hair too long, used to date Rory."

"Yeah, I know Dean," he said dismissively. The morning rush was busy that morning and he didn't have time (or patience) for her chitchat.

"He's going to college," Rory broke in. "The University of Connecticut. He left today."

Luke paused, almost surprised he'd forgotten. "Is that so?"

Lorelai nodded sagely. Then she leaned in, her eyebrows raised. "They say he's leaving because of the electrocution."

Luke's brow furrowed. "The electrocution?"

"You know, his little run in with a live wire," she said.

Memory sparked a surge of guilt, of defensiveness. The town still regarded that at his heroic moment, a moment of insight into the true heart of Luke Danes or something equally ridiculous. For his part, Luke tried to ignore that it ever happened. "What does that have to do with anything?"

Lorelai leaned back and shrugged. "Just that electrical shocks sometimes can cause mood alterations."

Rory nodded in agreement. "I've read cases about that," she said. "Someone is a very motivated and bright student and is hit by lightning and bam! Just like that, they're indifferent slackers who live off welfare for the rest of their lives. The shock in a sense reorganized their brain."

"You've got to be kidding me," Luke said.

"No, really," Rory said. "Look it up."

"So how does Dean going to college equate to a high school dropout who abuses the benevolence of the government?"

"Well if it can go one way, it can go another, right?" Lorelai chipped in.

"Maybe he just wanted to go back," he said. "Didn't he always talk about that?"

"After five years?" Rory asked, doubtful. "The statistics are very clear on this. People who drop out rarely go back. That kind of life change requires a great deal of dedication and determination."

"Which, is what the electrocution gave him," Lorelai concluded for her daughter, happily. "So you're a hero twice over. Once for letting him get himself electrocuted in the diner. Twice for bringing him back to life."

Luke just looked at them, glancing at one, then the other as they talked. Their banter was friendly and familiar and even after all that had happened, he still counted on it in his life.

But they didn't get it. They were a part of Stars Hollow, just like everyone else. Blinded by their gossip, by their sense of insight, by their own self-confidence that they knew everything.

For a second, Luke wanted to say something. He wanted to tell them they didn't have any idea what they were talking about. That they didn't know thing one about Dean Forester and who he was and what he wanted. That maybe they should just stop talking about people, making assumptions, because sometimes people hurt. Sometimes people screw up and sometimes people change.

Sometimes it did take an electrical shock, though, to figure that out. And he didn't even have to be the one with 120 volts running through him.

"Luke?" Lorelai asked. "Are you okay?"

He shook himself. "What? Yeah, I'm fine. Did you need more coffee?"

Lorelai glanced at her full cup. "As if you really want to see me on _more_ caffeine."

"Been there, done that," Luke agreed. "Anything else?"

"Just the pleasure of your company, oh grouchy one."

And Luke just rolled his eyes, turning away from their smiling faces, and heading back to the counter.

And if he'd just decided that the tip jar had become the Dean Forester College Support Fund--well, no one had to know.

_end_


End file.
